I remember a time when the after-party used to be a kebab, a spliff and a drunken snog in someone’s front room. That may come later but, for now, we’ve waved our hands and curtseyed to every damn person in this place so we’re rewarding ourselves by sprawling across the marble floors of an empty event room, enjoying a picnic of goodies that Cass stole from the kitchen. Naturally, this event was also not without alcohol so we have stolen a few pitchers of Pimm’s. Cass isn’t even using a glass but linked up some paper straws to one. I cast an eye over the finger sandwiches and tartlets but I don’t fancy any of it. I fancy crisps. But princesses don’t eat Pringles, do they? Hayley enters the room, looking like she may want to stab someone or something.
‘I hate rich people,’ she mutters, taking a cupcake and running a finger through the icing. She takes off her Snow White bow and drops it to the floor.
‘Trouble?’ I ask.
‘Just people who don’t know the value of things. One woman wanted to hire me for her daughter’s party. I could have said £3K for the hour and she’d have blindly written me a cheque. Also turns out the daughter is one. I’m being paid to sing to a room full of babies.’
Cass and I giggle, having had our fair share of the Pimm’s already. Cass’s worst party experience was a room full of two-year-olds, one of who pooed down her dress because someone forgot to put pants on their child. Darren and I were once expected to dress up like lions. We wore gold catsuits. We had a Lion King routine all mapped out and then we got to the party and we were not what was expected. They wanted real lions. For a children’s party. They demanded we leave the venue immediately and we couldn’t get changed. We had to go back on the Tube dressed like that.
‘Waste of money, these big parties,’ I mumble.
Darren laughs. ‘Says she who is having the biggest party for her thirtieth.’
I gesture a hand at Darren for pouring shade on my party plans. In a few months’ time it’s my thirtieth and I am going for broke. I’ve hired a field in Hampshire and I am turning it into LucyFest. It’ll be like a Glastonbury celebrating me, we’re having a small stage erected, an ice-cream van, and everyone is bringing their own tent, firewood and alcohol. Emma, my second eldest sister, is far from impressed because I’m forcing her to buy a sleeping bag but I have perfect visions of dancing around a camp fire, drink in hand, and bellowing into the sky to celebrate thirty whirls around the sun.
‘Babe, you know that’s different,’ I reply. ‘It will be hardcore raving in a field, not a fluffy cake in sight. Just dancing until the sun comes up and getting smashed off our faces.’
‘With your face on all the T-shirts?’ Darren jokes, though I’m glad he sees the funny side of that as he’ll most likely be the one helping me iron all the transfers onto them.
‘And? Not even Ophelia had merch today.’
‘No, she gave everyone Pandora,’ Cass adds, getting out an impeccably wrapped party favour she seems to have possibly stolen. ‘I was tasked with handing these out.’
Our jaws all drop to the floor. ‘Charms for the girls, leather bands for the boys and a note in calligraphy. Not a Tangfastic in sight.’
We all let out a collective sigh of shared despair and resignation. None of us have a desire to be in the party business forever. We’re here for the money. The money pays our bills, keeps our noses clean (maybe not Hayley’s; there’s also a certain irony that she is Snow White) and off the streets. We supplement parties with waitressing, film-extra work, bar work and aforementioned side hustles on the internet. Darren works at Costco every Tuesday too but that’s mainly to get the free hotdogs. They’re not perfect jobs but they also supplement our hopes and dreams of seeing our names in lights. Better to aim for doing something in life that will make our souls sing. That’s the quiet underlying reasoning about why we’re sitting here looking like the world’s saddest Disney reunion film.
‘I don’t ever want to be that rich,’ Hayley says dolefully. ‘If I become the next Adele and win Grammys then you all have permission to slap me back down to where I belong if I become some highfalutin bitch bag.’
I nod earnestly. Cass salutes, half scanning something on her phone.
‘Urgh, how is this even possible?’ she says, gagging. ‘That pervy dad at the party has found my Insta page and has just messaged me.’
We all grab at our phones. ‘Name?’ Darren asks.
‘Frederick Bell.’
You’ve never seen fingers move quicker. Hayley cackles with laughter.
‘The bell stands for bellend. Those berry red chinos are a LOOK… Check out the hunting pics, what a knob. Fiver says he’s into kink involved with that,’ I say.
‘I always get the old man freaks. You two get the fit dads…’ Cass cries, stuffing a quarter of a sandwich into her mouth.
‘I get the married ones,’ Hayley reminds her. ‘I’m the bit on the side, it never ends well.’
I nod in agreement. ‘These are not hunting grounds for boyfriends. It’s either single dads who’ve been dumped on their asses or blokes in stale marriages who want to re-live out stuff they’ve seen in porn.’
Hayley nods. Cass is not like me and Hayley. She’s still looking for that happy ending where someone will pick her up, pledge undying love and whisk her away to a new-build semi in Surrey. The sort of world Hayley and I inhabit, the semis and happy endings normally end on our faces.
I grab Cass by the cheeks and give her a massive kiss on the lips. ‘One day your prince will come.’
She pouts. I mean, he’ll probably come via Tinder as opposed to on a white horse but hey. Our phones all pinging with messages suddenly get our attention.
‘Dickweasel warning,’ Hayley tells us.
We flare our nostrils. It’s Richard, sometimes known as Dick but his proper full name is The Dickweasel and he’s the owner of the agency where we all get our ridiculous party jobs. The nickname is pretty self-explanatory. He’s a sneaky diva, never pays us on time and likes to bore us with his fake stories, like the time he sat next to Tom Hanks on a flight and they shared some nuts. Never happened. He calls us his kids like we’re some sort of family but we’re not here for him and his terrible acting tips, we is here for the moolah.
‘They need an Elsa in half an hour over the river. The girl booked has shown up drunk and thrown up,’ Darren says. ‘Well, that’s me out.’
‘I dunno, D. You have the legs for tights,’ Cass says, looking down at his calves, the hairs sticking out of the Lycra at unsavoury angles like a very bald rug.
I’m studying the message, while Cass and Hayley look to me. I know why. Elsa is my speciality. I can let it go like no one you’ve ever seen. I’d like to say I’ve won awards but no. Kids tell me I’m great and sometimes I get tips and extra cake for my time. Today, they’re paying double to get someone down straight away and I think about my very overdrawn bank account.
‘I can help. I got ready here – I can do your hair?’ Hayley says, rooting through her bags. That’s the thing about princesses – the costumes are interchangeable. Cass is already taking her Belle gloves off for me in case I touch stuff and it turns to ice. Hayley whips off her white cape. All I need is a French plait and I’m pretty much good to go.
‘Two parties in a day, that’s pretty much your forte,’ Darren says, winking at me.
‘You want to come along and be Hans?’ I ask. ‘We can ask the kitchen here if they could give us some ice.’
‘I’d say yes but these tights are making my balls sweat buckets,’ he says, pulling at the gusset. ‘You’d better hustle. How are you going to get over there? There are those roadworks right outside,’ he reminds me.
‘I’ll run?’ I tell him, slipping off my glass slippers and changing into my Converse. It’ll add to the drama, me running across the Thames, my skirt and cape billowing in the river breeze. It’ll be nice for the tourists.
He smiles, knowing last minute is my life. ‘I’ll text Dick and let him know you’re coming.’
‘Bring it on,’ I reply, gloving up and going through Hayley’s make-up. We will need glitter, all the goddamn glitter.
When I get outside, I realise Darren wasn’t joking. London is famous for this – traffic that not only weaves its way through three different lanes but also is governed by traffic lights that make little sense and usually end in couriers being where they shouldn’t and black cabs swearing at them with added hand gestures. It’s early June and a midsummer heatwave means the warmth simmers up from the pavements, thick and unrelenting. Whoever’s booked a Frozen party in this weather is feeling the full force of irony today.
‘Y’all right, Elsa?’ says a man in a black cab, winding down his window.
‘How long have you been sat there then?’ I ask him.
‘Days, mate. I’ve had kidney stones that have left my system quicker than this shitshow. Where do you need to go?’
‘South Bank,’ I tell him.
He sucks air sharply through his mouth. ‘Bridges are rammed too. Can you get on the Tube like that?’
I could but running feels like the better option. I salute him and escape down a staircase to try and tackle Waterloo Bridge. I’ll be hot and sweaty Elsa but at least I won’t be drunk and vomity Elsa. As I look down the bridge, black cab man wasn’t far wrong. It’s also the weekend and the tourist vibe is strong. I stand here wondering what to do.
‘Hello, thank you, please?’
I turn and a group of European tourists are grinning and pushing their kids towards me. Oh. I’m not one of those street artist people. But the kids look up at me, wide-eyed with excitement. I guess… I bend down and smile next to a boy in a Union Jack T-shirt. This better make the DVD photo reel they show Grandma. The dad, in a figure-hugging lemon yellow polo shirt, then gives me a pound. I won’t be able to get a can of Coke for that around here? They all wave at me. Danke, merci, gracias.
Are you on your way?
It’s a text from the Dickweasel.
Yep.
Make sure the mother comes through on the paying you extra in cash. She also wants some singing. Be a love and belt out a couple of favourites?
If we were singing my favourites then it would be numbers from the Cardi B back catalogue. Come on, kids, let’s be bad bitches and beat up them piñatas! I don’t reply. I’ll do a stand-up job because I care.
I lean against a railing as I bring up the address again on my phone. Shit. I’ll need Usain Bolt speed to get there in time. I could jump on the Tube. Sometimes the Tube is quick, sometimes it’s a bloody lottery.
‘Excuse me? May I?’ a young man suddenly asks me.
I look down and realise I’m propped next to a line of rental bicycles and he is trying to return one. There’s a young twenty-something casual vibe about him, like he’s just been on a tour of London to buy sourdough bread and marvel at the architecture, and I immediately resent how relaxed he looks. He’s even had time to turn up his jeans. The young man looks at me curiously. It’s Elsa with a rucksack. And his point is? Where else is she going to put her stuff if her dress doesn’t have pockets?
‘You look lost?’ he says quizzically.
‘Not lost, just trying to work out the best way to get over the river.’
His face says it all. I don’t think you’re dressed for a bike, love. But seriously, I’ve ridden these before (usually at night, drunk). Tourists ride them with selfie sticks and go live on their YouTube travel vlogs. Sourdough boy’s look aggrieves me, like he doesn’t think it even possible that I could get on a bicycle. Only one thing happens when someone does that to me, it’s a challenge. I get out my phone and book a bike.
‘I’d jump in a taxi,’ he suggests.
‘Party is in half an hour, too much traffic.’
I can see what he’s trying to do. Rescue me. Yeah, mate, if you watched the film, you’ll see that Elsa does not need saving. She needs a sister.
‘Well, good luck,’ he replies, puzzled.
I tuck the sides of my skirt into my knickers and take off my cape and stuff it in my rucksack. We all know that capes can be disastrous. The trainers will help. Hell, I may even take a selfie because this is the stuff that makes Instagram stories interesting. #elsawithherlegsout. Done. Right, time to ride this bad boy out of here.
My sister Grace taught me how to ride a bike. It was along our street on a hand-me-down bike where the plastic basket had been eaten away by the fact that we sisters had often tried to sit in it to catch rides on the handlebars. I remember her pushing me down our road and her shouting at me to pedal. Your legs have to go round super quickly! I pedalled for my shitting life. I still remember that grimace on my face, having to make my legs work that quickly. I remember crashing right into the neighbour’s Astra and leaving a scratch down the side that we blamed on the bin men.
That memory is brought to the fore as I pedal like a maniac now. Five minutes ago, I was completely romanticising this image. I thought I’d be floating over the bridge like romantic heroines do when they’re cycling through fields of French sunflowers in well-fitting sundresses with no bras. I’d wave at tourists, have my breath taken away by the iconic London skyline and make someone on a bus laugh. However, the reality is that this is a bloody slog in this heat and I’m grimacing. And sweating. A black cab toots his horn and I can’t tell if it’s because I’m revealing a lot of thigh or because my cycling’s a bit wobbly. He can bite me. Oh, I know why. It’s because I’m not in the cycle lane. I’m cycling along with the actual traffic. That’s brave, if stupid, as the cycle lane is empty. I won’t get over that barrier.
Double pay, Luce. Focus on the money. This will be a great anecdote to tell the nieces. They will love this story. I stop next to a bus where a young child kneels up on a seat to gaze at me. The eye contact is completely unnerving. They tug on their mum’s sleeve, who turns to stare at me too. She looks worried for me but she’s not completely perturbed as this is London so there are crazier things one can see in this mad city. I once saw a man walking a pig. But you can tell she’s also trying to come up with a feasible explanation for what I’m doing. You see, in the summer, she needs to get around on a bike. A sled is useless. As are crystal slippers when you have to get around town and be practical. I wave. The child waves back. Please be one of those little girls who imprints this vision into your mind. That time you saw a real-life princess towing her own arse around town and doing the work, under her own bloody steam.
I put my feet back on the pedals and push off to a start again. The traffic starts to crawl, which makes my job a bit easier, and I see a gap, manoeuvring my bike along a stretch of clear road, the sun on my face. This is the part where I’m supposed to close my eyes, put my arms out and freewheel my way into freedom and a better life, isn’t it?
‘Oi! Oi!’
Oh god, it’s some sports-loving tribe of men crossing the bridge, possibly on a stag do. I’d like to think I’m cycling fast enough for them not to notice me but I’m now weaving around cars at a standstill and using my feet as brakes.
‘Mate, is she your stripper? Thought she was showing up later.’
I slow down. I shouldn’t as I need to get to a party and have a quick tidy and wipe-down before I appear in front of the children but certain things get my back up, casual misogyny in the street, for example.
‘You wish, you doucheface.’
I turn to face him and give him the bird, which shows incredible feats of balance from me. He and his rubbish hipster beard don’t look impressed as, naturally, he’s lost his alpha status because I dared to answer back so now some of the group laugh.
‘Oooh, she’s a feisty one… What you doing later, love? Say ten-ish?’
Oh, you can eff off too. ‘I’ll be at home laughing about you and your needle dicks. Toodle-oo.’
And with that, a gap in the traffic appears and I ride off at a moderate speed without having to worry about men in loafers chasing me, just leaving words in the breeze as my legacy. I really hope they’re not chasing me.
I pedal a little harder. I cross lanes thinking I’m some sort of cycling ninja. Look at me like I’m in the Tour de France. A male tourist, possibly European because there’s double denim involved, screams something in a foreign language at me.
‘Elsa, ACHTUNG! VORSICHTIG SEIN!’
‘And to you too, my friend!’ I reply, laughing jovially.
But before I can work out what he means, it just appears out of nowhere. That’s an actual bus. And I panic. The side of my dress to my right thigh falls out, I can’t grab it and brake at the same time. It gets tangled in the wheel. Oh, you fricking idiot. No, no, no. Boof. And then air. All this air beneath me. Like I’m flying. Does Elsa fly? I don’t think she’s that sort of princess.